


The love that you felt will be here when you are Gone

by presentedbyzaia



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, It's all about The Yearning TM, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Mentions of Violence, POV Second Person, Season 3, Yearning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:20:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26192563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/presentedbyzaia/pseuds/presentedbyzaia
Summary: A little second person study on Hannibal. It's a mixture of Hannibal thinking about stuff during his trial, then conversations about Will getting married while he's sitting around locked up, ft wedding photos. It's all about The Yearning.
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 1
Kudos: 38





	The love that you felt will be here when you are Gone

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my first fic for Hannibal fandom, I hope you enjoy! I usually actually write more nsfw stuff but I thought this would be a good way to ease myself into the characters, doing more of a character study. Catch me on twitter @vergereel.

Will hasn't come to any of the trial dates so far. 

It isn't surprising, but you had wondered if he would. You'd been there for his, it made sense to expect him. In truth you'd been almost feverishly anticipating the moment of when Will would take the stand, wondering if he would wear that grey blazer from his teaching days or would you see the Brooks Brothers blazer upon his frame that you once bought him. You're picturing it during one of the longer trial hearings, imagining Will Graham walking through the door quietly, perhaps looking freshly rested up more than ever. Your mind decides he's wearing the grey, cheap blazer after all, but you hope that if Will had thrown your gifts into the rubbish, that it would've taken at least a few weeks to motivate himself to do it. You picture him opening up the wardrobe and each time he'd see those chinos, that overcoat, the cuff links, and he'd think of you. 

He wouldn't wear them to the trial, you've decided. 

You picture him being called to the stand and you wonder what he would consider himself. Your victim? Patient? Friend? It doesn't matter, whoever calls him to the stand probably decides for him, asking for a victim of Hannibal Lecters to swear oath in the silence of the court room. He would hate it but again you feel disappointment that he's seemingly not involving himself in the process. How you would love to hear Will spend hours upon hours dissecting all what you have done to him, to his friends, the way Will would have to carefully consider each instance to make sure he doesn't end up looking just as guilty as you are. The press are sharks in the water looking for the scent of blood of Will Grahams involvement after Ms Lounds' articles and you wonder if that's the main reason he never makes an appearance. 

You know it's more simple than that. 

Still, you wonder if anyone reached out to him and who. Perhaps it's a good thing Will never makes an appearance at your trials, you're going after a particular sentence after all and it wouldn't do to have your carefully laid plans with Alana Bloom and your lawyer threatened by whatever mood Will decided to be in on the day. You don't think Will sees you as insane - quite a conundrum when one is pleading insanity, in a court of law - but even if he did, perhaps he would just want you to get a death sentence either way, would skew his testimonial to that end. 

No, you don't think he'd do that. 

You find the actual trial you're currently sitting in tedious as they go through a slideshow of pictures of your harvests one by one and you hear someone gag in the audience and you don't let yourself stop the small uplift of the corners of your mouth. 

You decide Jack had probably asked him to testify and was probably put off when Will either ignored his messages and calls or directly refused to his face. You can picture Jack trying to be understanding, he's still the protective figure to Will no matter what has happened over the years, but maybe after a while Jack hears the excuse about the media and was probably relieved. Jack is equally tired you think, his mind is full of the need to protect those he loves and you think it'll extend to Will. Of course Will can't testify, there's too many FBI secret plots that could be revealed, too many calls to FBI incompetency that could be plastered over newspapers. No, Jack would think better of it and Will would be left to isolate with his dogs. 

You hope he's sleeping well. 

You think of him then, while you're dressed up and paraded in front of the mass media, the officers and judges, probed and dissected like you're not even in the room. You can picture him still in bed, laying beside one of the calmer dogs, an old worn favourite paperback in his hands as he ignores the world outside. Does he even know it's one of your trial days today? No, you can imagine he's been ignoring any and all news outlets for the time being, least he catch the several photos of your face printed everywhere. You can imagine it could be quite a strange experience, seeing the house and office you had shared with him, a safe space for the two of you for so long, become nothing more than an expose in a gossip rag. The cannibals mansion, the cannibals kitchen, the cannibals office that is so much more than that to you and him but maybe it'll be easier for Will to think about it like that in the future. A passing memory, of that cannibals warmly lit fireplace that Will would stand by in the cold evenings and look at you with a glass of something in his hand, blue eyes meeting yours. 

You almost resent him then. It would be more satisfying if he felt trapped by you even now, that he had cast you away so thoroughly to only be stuck with you in every corner of every hour. You're being talked about on every TV and radio station, on the front of every paper and website, and even then you know Will would find a way to ignore you, as stubborn as he is and his final his ultimatum had been. When Will had been incarcerated, you had felt restless for days until you walked to his cell and saw him with your own eyes, smelt his scent free of that cologne. There was a mustiness to it, perhaps from the basements dampness, the dust particles in the air ever so visible, but it had soothed you. You remember standing in your kitchen one of those evenings where you couldn't see him and you poured two glasses of wine and just stared at it in embarrassment. It had been a weird feeling, living two truths at once, you understood what you had did, but something inside you ached. 

Hearing his voice, seeing him, like a salve on a burn if you could compare it to a physical feeling. 

No, Will Graham doesn't need you like that. 

\---

"Don't suppose Dr Bloom has told you yet? About the wedding."

"Oh? You're going to have to be more specific, Frederick, or am I perhaps congratulating you? It this the nature of the visit today?"

There's derivative snort, it's loud in the silence of your cell and you hate the sound of it. 

"Please, I feel like I've already complained to you at how awkward you've made my love life when typically revealing you've been shot at the face tends to make things go sour."

"Merely a good test of character. Sifts out anyone not willing to commit."

"You're the last person I want dating advice from," it's said rather scoldingly, but also with a little bit if humour like there's a joke he's keeping from you. Chilton takes another bite from the meal laid out in front of him, a simple yet pleasant lunch, before he continues. "Will Graham's wedding."

You don't let yourself pause and instead take a sip of white wine. You find the plastic wine glasses provided in poor taste, the material all wrong against your lips and teeth but you've gotten used to it this past year. You watch Chilton watch you for a response, like someone who had planted a bomb and was waiting in the distance to see it go off, but you see him slowly grow frustrated as the seconds tick away and he doesn't see the fireworks you so clearly know he wants to see. 

"I see. Well, I wish him all the best, shall we toast?"

"That's all you've got to say? I was expecting a little more."

"You sound disappointed." 

"You know, I wasn't actually invited, which, I feel like it was the least he could do. I was there for him, shared trauma and all that, very niche trauma mind you, of being framed by you and left to flop on the deck like a dying fish, but," Chilton sips at his own wine, and you try and keep the amusement off your face. "At the very least he should've sent an invite. I saw the photos on his wife's social media, it looked very -- quaint. I'm surprised Dr Bloom hasn't printed off all the photos and laid them around this room as you slept, for you to wake up to."

He's got a point you concede. You're just as surprised as he is that she hasn't. You don't interrupt his rant however, you know Chilton slips up with information the more you let him wind himself up.  
"Very American, though by the looks of it, it was mostly her relatives. A small event, after party in a barn, the whole chic fairy light on wood thing - I wonder who his best man was, I didn't see anyone in the photos-- Wait, it was probably one of the dogs, wasn't it."

You raise an eyebrow, "his dogs are quite intelligent but I'm not sure of the quality of the speech one could deliver as a canine."

"To think, maybe in another life, it could've been you as best man and all that."

"I'm very much sure even if I could attend, that role would still be assigned to one of his furry friends. Though, I feel like I would be happier with another role at such an event."

"Right, sorry, wedding crasher then."

"I was thinking more groom."

"You're awfully good humoured about Will Graham getting married, I feel like I should be worried."

"Not much I can do in this situation, I'm afraid. More of a matter of accepting what comes my way at this point," you give a performative little sigh, like it's a slight annoyance that you're locked up, that you're having to find out this information from Frederick Chilton, but you're still attuned to the movements of your human suit and the small smile you paste on your face is the same one you'd show as if you accidentally just spilt some milk on the kitchen counter. 

"He hasn't visited you, has he." It's not a question.

"Again, Frederick, you sound awfully disappointed."

"I just thought it could make for some emotional drama in my book."

\---

Alana Bloom does make a visit eventually. 

There's only the sound of her heels on the wooden floor and the subtle sound of the shift of her blazer before the loud clank of your mail box drawer cuts through the room. You can smell her perfume today, classic no.5 that you can tell is Margot's influence yet you think it suits her. No nonsense, a timeless scent that speaks of confidence that Alana has grown into, you admire it as much as you find it irritating - you're used to your thoughts being often contradictory. 

She stands there looking at you, waiting for you to pick up the nondescript manila folder like she's crushed up flakes of fish food and you're the singular goldfish in the tank of her creation. You think aquarium similes to your situation are trite but sometimes they're apt. 

You take the folder out, bring it back to your table. You methodically spread the photos neatly in a grid. 

"This is quite an unusual form of therapy, Dr Bloom."

"Chilton said you were interested in seeing."

"Did he now," you look at her with your eyebrows raised, and she lets a small smile cross her face, like you're both standing back in your kitchen, sharing a small joke between you. "Very gracious of Dr Chilton, though I'm feeling an undercurrent of something more to this."

"I thought about it. Not showing you, I mean, you're not owed it."

"Of course," you let your fingers briefly brush over the glossy paper of one of the photos. She could've printed these out in black and white, on recycled paper, but no she's brought with her prints on quality photo paper and you wonder if she's going to keep them herself after. Or are they for you? There would be no poetic way to get rid of them, no burning of memories in the fire, you'd have to rip them into pieces, flush them away. Perhaps just throw the folder into the bookshelf and never look at it again. You have no scissors either, to cut out the parts you don't feel are needed in these shots, but you feel like you'd live up to the psychopath stereotypes, cutting out Will from photos, separating him from the people surrounding him. 

You realize you're staring down at them intently and when you look up at Alana she looks satisfied with herself. 

"I'm trying to think what exactly is the reaction you'd want from me, Dr Bloom," you take our hands away from the photos, clasp then gently behind your back. "Perhaps you're looking for my scathing review of the outfits? The venue? You don't think Mr Graham's choice of suit compliments him either, do you? You'd rather listen to me than air your own grievances about this situation." 

"I have no grievances - she suits him."

"Better than you could've seen yourself ever doing?"

"Better than the both of us."

"Very harsh, Dr Bloom," and she smiles. 

"Pick three you want to keep, I'll take the rest back."

\---

There's 18 photos in the lot. 

It's a mixture of staged photos and a few with a more natural feel to them, a spur of the moment snapshot. You think there were probably more photos taken, but Alana more than likely sorted them out for you with your own preferences in mind. You can't imagine Will allowed himself to get photographed much to begin with and you wonder if these are the only photos that included him anyway. You wonder if Alana had gotten permission to print these out, but something tells you this is another secret between you. 

Will looks handsome. 

One of the photos is during the ceremony, at the alter, you find yourself staring at it. He's smiling so widely, so openly, and you're surprised Alana didn't make a comment about it - see? Look at what he's like without you. Without all of us, you'd correct her. The woman, Molly, is beautiful in a simple wedding dress, and it speaks volumes to you about the type of woman she is but even just deciding to marry Will tells you what you can guess from the photos. Someone no nonsense, straight froward - Will has probably had enough of riddle, metaphor and hidden agenda behind soft smiles to last a lifetime. The dress is barely embellished, choosing more to allow beauty in the draped chiffon over her shoulders. You don't think Will would've said no to anything she would've asked for, so you can only deduce that what you're seeing in the photos is the genuine portrayal of her own tastes and personality.

You're piecing together the evidence.

It amuses you to think of it like that. You remember staring at the gory crime scene photos shared with you in a similar way and you think if those were spread over the table instead, you would be much more comforted. 

Will is in a grey three piece and you're thankful someone at least had the foresight to tell him black would've been too harsh on him. The fabric has a texture to it and you think back to that blazer he always wore, to that overcoat you bought him and you wonder if he'd walked into the chosen outfitters for the event with a plan in mind or just let his hands brush through sample suits until he found something that spoke to him. Perhaps, the feel of of a soft tweed was a comfort when faced with the unknown of a wedding. The shirt has a subtle pinstripe and you think back to sitting around Mason's dining table and you remember the suit he'd been dressed in then and it's almost a shame it's such a muted look in these photographs. The boldness had suited him, then. 

There's is a pop of colour however - the boutonnière. A beautiful red rose with a small collection of smaller white flowers surrounding it. Nothing too elaborate, you've seen and worn ones much more interesting, but it compliments the simplicity of the brides dress, her bouquet. You wonder if Will had spoken up against red being the colour for their ceremony, too many memories associated with the vividness of fresh blood, but perhaps to Molly it had different connotations that Will so desperately wanted to share in. Of love, warmth, passion, family. 

You don't think the red suits him this one time. 

You put the photo of Will and Molly exchanging vows back into the folder. You wouldn't want to keep it - this isn't your ceremony to look upon, you feel like a voyeur. 

No, instead you cast your attention to a particular photo in the set. Will is kneeling down in a grassy landscape, though you can see part of the venue in the background, wooden tables and chairs decorated in party favours, drinks, lights. There's a feeling like Will doesn't even know the photo is being taken, as he fusses over three dogs surrounding him, clamouring for attention, and there's such an ease to his laughing and smiling face you can picture the scene clearly. Will, overwhelmed by the socialization of the evening, taking a brief respite with some of the dogs, playing with them and fussing over them without a care to grass stains, dog hair or saliva. He wonders who took the photo. It feels like a tender moment, captured in time. 

You set that one aside to keep. 

You go through the rest like that, taking in each detail. You don't care for the large, posed group photos, filled with faces you don't care about, you don't care for the ones of the ceremony either. You're almost taken back, how easily Will slides into such mundane normalcy and you wonder if this had been the road for Will all along and you'd been wrong the entire time. It makes you scoff at yourself to think like that, but there's a certain edge to seeing Will stand there, a hand draped over the shoulder of his surrogate son, an arm gently winding around the back of his wife - it feels like self flagellation to keep staring at it so you put it back into the folder. 

No, the ones you pick are probably the ones Alana knows you'll go for and for once you don't care about being predictable. There's something that fills you up like a particular meal once did when you look upon the photos of Will by himself or with the dogs, not noticing the camera, going about in his own world. There's a photo taken a little from the side, across from where Will is sitting at a table outside, faced towards the dance floor, casually splayed across a chair that he's hung his blazer upon the back of. In his hand is a glass with a splash of brown, whisky of course, and there's a thoughtfulness to his expression but with such warmth to it that it reminds you of how he used to look at you. It's a photo taken in the twilight hours of the evening, just passing sunset, and the glow from the fairy lights above mixed in with the dying sun look stunning upon his profile. You can already foresee yourself carefully sketching this out later during the week, trying to capture the play of light on skin with charcoal and your fingertips. 

Your finger traces over his cheek in the photograph like you're trying to smudge it and you imagine the warmth you'd feel. 

\---

Jack takes to the stand during your trial and you realize he's taking the place for Will at the same time. 

It's fitting, you suppose. Jack had considered you a close friend too, had his own deep pool of betrayal he'd been dunked in, the waters cold and shocking. You've given him life - Bella, Miriam - and you've taken it too, perhaps your truest success in playing god had been with Jack Crawfords life above everyone else. You don't quite consider him the wrathful lamb in your life, but you think back to the fight in Italy, in your kitchen in Baltimore, and something deep down wishes you could've continued your cat and mouse game, if only for the thrill of it all. 

He looks at you with a unwavering stare as he sits next to the judge, the vengeful wing of justice.

Your lawyer had been worried, hearing about Jack testifying. He'll probably try and push for a death sentence he'd warned, but you just assured him that you didn't think that was the case. No, for Jack, the death sentence wouldn't be enough to sate his revenge. Jack had clearly been thankful for your intervention with Bella's attempt to end her life, but you think in those last few months, maybe he'd come to resent you for it. In the end, you forced his hand to kill, though it was never a death you had actually wanted on your hands, but you know Jack wouldn't believe you, not anymore. To see you deteriorate yourself over months of captivity, that's more of a fitting end for you. 

Though, the look Jack gives you as he explains to the court of the events of that fateful planned dinner, you think he'd rather just fight you again and throw you off a bridge, leave you dying in some dirty city lake in Italy and would be just as satisfied.

Maybe a sewer, actually. 

It makes you smirk during the trial at the thought of it, and you fiddle with a pen between your hands, breaking eye contact with Jack for the first time since he took the stand. You are still allowed ball points at this point, innocent until proven guilty. You could shove it into someones eye, make a scene, force Jack to come back another day for another trial and relive all the horrors and nightmares of your shared experiences but there's also a tiredness in your bones. You've been running for so long now, you've finally sat down and it feels like you can't get back up again - at least not for a while.  
Jack is questioned about you, and it's refreshing to hear him talk about you so openly and truthfully. 

He brings up Will then, too. What he saw you do to him, claims you're the one to blame for destroying the teacup but you give him a look that makes Jack pause. Lying under oath, are we? There's a hardness in his posture, but there's a sadness in his eyes and you almost feel like dragging out the feelings of guilt is too easy to actually enjoy as entertainment. You could point fingers yourself on the topic of Will Graham, but you won't. You've accepted the role of the villain and like all good thespians, you plan to see your role to it's end. 

They ask Jack what was Will Graham to Hannibal Lecter and it's simple, a victim. 

When they ask Jack what he's to Hannibal Lecter, a former-friend. A former colleague. A former trusted confidant.

Jack really never paid attention to the little things. Will had been the person to do that for him, but over time getting used to Will picking up the slack in that area clearly had made him too dependent to not see things for himself. Or perhaps, like everyone else, he just merely chose to not see them. 

When the trial goes on break, Jack walks past you and stops. 

"Will I ever know," he'd asks, the quiet question drowned out in the background noise of people getting up, going about their business, shuffling their bags and jackets. "Why you're doing this."

"I'm sure you'll figure it out. One day."


End file.
